


Snared

by Eione



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bondage, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Fucked with the hilt of a weapon, Knifeplay, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Rape as Revenge, background Beren/Lúthien - Freeform, dark Lúthien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-05-30 22:48:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19413004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eione/pseuds/Eione
Summary: Lúthien loses her patience with Celegorm and Curufin. She ties Celegorm down and takes her revenge, while Curufin is forced to watch.





	Snared

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sleepless_Malice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/gifts).



They pulled up in a clearing to rest the horses. Lúthien had remained silent during the ride, her anger building inside of her. Beren was still lying unconscious, recovering from Curufin’s arrow. Though he was out of danger, and she had called to Huan to stay and guard him, she wanted to be at Beren’s side. Not to be snatched up by the sons of Fëanor, who meant to bring her back to the captivity she had endured in Nargothrond, to lock her away from the sun and the wind until her will broke.

She wanted none of it. She wanted to be free from Celegorm’s arm around her waist, from Curufin’s gaze that weighed and measured her like so much gold and silver. What would she have to do, Lúthien asked herself in despairing fury, to make Celegorm and Curufin _leave her and Beren alone_?

She was released at last, as Celegorm dismounted from his horse. He offered her his hand. “Will you rest here with us, lady?” He still had that same cocky grin, and Lúthien’s fury boiled over. She turned her face away and slid to the ground on the other side of the horse. Celegorm only laughed. “You’ll have enough time to get used to me, once we’re married.”

Lúthien did not look at him. She spared only a single glance at Curufin, to see where he was: walking slowly back and forth under a tree to unstiffen his legs. Lúthien began to sing.

The trees in these woods had known the voice of the tree-shepherds. They drowsed, but did not sleep. Lúthien sang them a wordless, gentle song, coaxing them to stir, pleading with them to aid her. Their thoughts ran slow and sleepily under their layers of bark, but she sensed that they would do as she asked. She let her song trail off into silence.

Lúthien whirled around suddenly and sang a few harsh glittering syllables, not in her father’s tongue but her mother’s. Vines shot from the earth and wrapped around Celegorm’s legs, pulling him down; at the same time, a tree’s branches swung to close around Curufin, pinning him fast to the trunk.

Celegorm let out a startled exclamation when he fell, but he still did not realize the seriousness of the situation. Not even when more vines twined around his wrists and ankles, binding him fast to the ground. He was still grinning, as if it was all a joke. “You like to play rough, Princess Lúthien? Don’t worry, I like to play too.”

Curufin had gone still, his eyes very cold. He had some idea of what was going to happen, even if his brother did not. “Princess Lúthien,” he began, his voice low and deadly. “You cannot hope for victory here. The sons of Fëanor—”

Lúthien did not want to listen to him any longer. She had perforce listened enough, in Nargothrond, his smooth voice listing the reasons why it was good and advantageous for her to forsake Beren and marry Celegorm, why it was right and necessary for him and his brother to hold her prisoner. She sang a few bright notes; a branch of the tree moved again, and Curufin’s mouth was stuffed full of leaves. There. Let him try to talk now. He glared fury at her, but he could not move.

Lúthien turned away and stalked towards Curufin. She knelt down beside him in the grass, flicking her skirts out of the way, and drew the knife from his belt. Lúthien cut through his tunic from the neck to the waist. Celegorm instinctively tried to draw away, but many loops of strong vine held his wrists firmly in place.

The blade was very sharp. Would it cut through his leather belt? It would. Then the rest of the tunic, waist to hem and shoulders to wrists, and the shirt underneath it. She was not entirely careful not to cut him. Celegorm hissed as thin red lines sprang up on his skin. Lúthien continued until she had cut every scrap of clothing from his body. She tossed the cloth scraps aside like fluttering leaves.

He lay before her naked on the ground, his legs spread apart and his arms stretched above his head. The vines bound him securely at ankles and wrists.

Celegorm’s grin wavered a bit before he forced it back, too brightly. “If you wanted to get me naked, princess, you could just have asked.”

“You did not ask me, when you would have forced me into marriage,” Lúthien said coldly. “And I will not ask you now.” She lowered the knife until the point was suspended over Celegorm’s bare chest, just touching his skin. Behind her, Curufin was struggling fiercely and making frantic muffled noises around his mouthful of leaves. She ignored him and made the first cut.

Blood welled up under the blade. Another cut, at an angle to the first, and then another. She carved the shape of letters into his skin, deep enough to scar. Not Fëanorian letters, but the angular runes invented by Daeron of Doriath. _These are the crimes of Celegorm son of Fëanor._

Celegorm writhed under the blade, cursing quietly and monotonously. Blood trickled down his sides. Lúthien brushed it away; red droplets scattered onto the leaves. Her fingertips were stained with red. No matter; she continued her work, carving the list of his deeds onto his body in letters of blood.

Celegorm’s chest was heaving, his forehead glistening with sweat. Lúthien rested her left hand lightly on his chest to hold him in place. His teeth were clenched against any sound of pain, but she felt him shiver when her fingers touched his skin. In his naked and spread-eagled state, it was impossible for him to hide that he was growing hard, his cock stiffening between his legs. He turned his head away, as if it could somehow hide his body from her. Yet she could feel his heartbeat speeding up under her hands, hear how he gave a small gasp each time the sharp point pierced his skin. She did not relent until she came to the end, writing out every cruel deed and betrayal.

At last Lúthien finished and sat back. She was icily calm, not a hair out of place, her skirts settled in neat folds around her. Celegorm was watching her, various expression flitting across his face: anger, apprehension, shame, desire. Lúthien stroked the knife’s hilt with blood-stained fingers. She glanced down at his erection.

“No,” Celegorm said involuntarily, his eyes widening.

Lúthien smiled slowly. “You think I intend to geld you? I intend to give you what you want.” She let her eyes flick over his cock again, flushed and half-hard. “Celegorm the Hunter,” she said with a hint of mockery. “Celegorm who would capture a bride by treachery, who seeks to ride down an unarmed man. But I think that you prefer to be the prey.” She sheathed the dagger, without wiping the blood off. Celegorm looked as if he wanted to complain at the mistreatment of his weapon. He would have more to complain about in a moment. She hummed a few notes and the vines pulled his legs upward, spreading them further apart.

Lúthien held the knife by the sheath and rubbed the hilt in Celegorm’s blood, turning it back and forth until it was slick and wet. She could tell by his expression that he still didn’t know what she meant to do. She gripped the sheath firmly and slid the hilt into the cleft of his buttocks, until the rounded pommel pressed against his hole. She could see Celegorm’s expression begin to change. She did not wait, but slid it inside him in one long thrust, burying the hard metal shaft inside him down to the cross-guard.

Celegorm screamed as the weapon’s hilt drove into him. He tried to twist away, jerking at his bonds, but the vines held him securely in place. He took heaving breaths, shuddering. The hilt must be cold inside him, a stiff intrusion pressing into his body and stretching him open.

Lúthien heard a sound from behind her. She turned to see that Curufin had snapped through the leafy branch with his teeth. He spat it out and glared at her, his eyes burning with fury. His hands were bloody from struggling against the rough bark. “Lúthien!”

Lúthien looked back at him without pity. He would have watched while his brother took her to wife by force. She sang another few notes, and Curufin was gagged with a branch too thick to bite through, though he could gnaw on it if he liked.

Lúthien turned back to Celegorm. He was lying where she had left him, his legs spread and held apart by the tangling vines, completely exposed to her. Lúthien seized hold of the knife’s sheath again, hooking her finger around one of the crosspieces to pull the hilt out a little, and immediately began to thrust it back into him, her pace hard and fast.

At last Celegorm’s composure wavered. His face was flushed with shame and humiliation. “Stop,” he said hoarsely. “Just—just stop.” He turned his head away, as if he could somehow hide from her, or from himself.

Lúthien leaned forward. When Celegorm reluctantly turned to look at her, she captured his gaze with her own. She sent a flash of power from her eyes like a stinging lash, forcing him to keep his head still and his eyes fixed on hers. She let the power of her gaze hold him in place while she fucked him hard with the knife’s hilt, forcing it into his hot flesh again and again. Celegorm’s lips parted, but no sound came out except for his harsh breaths. His eyes were wide and dark and desperate. His erection had flagged when she first forced the hilt into him, but he was getting hard again. She could tell that he badly wanted to close his eyes in sheer humiliation, but she forced him to remain looking at her. At last he came with a harsh gasp, his body twisting in his bonds, his cock jerking as his seed spurted over his skin.

Lúthien gave him no relief and continued to fuck into his oversensitive hole. If the first time was pain mixed with pleasure, this must surely be painful. He must be bruised and sore on the inside; he held himself very stiffly as he tried and failed not to clench down around the hard metal shaft that penetrated him.

A small whimper escaped him. Drops of sweat ran down his forehead, his chest, the inside of his thighs. He jerked uselessly against the vines that held him in place. Lúthien continued thrusting the hilt into him relentlessly, while his breath came in sobs. Held by the power of her gaze, he could only endure the battering, until his cock rose and filled with blood again, until wet drops dewed its tip, until he shook and shook and spilled over himself a second time.

Lúthien withdrew her gaze then and finally let him look away. Celegorm let out a long shuddering breath and closed his eyes.

Lúthien left the weapon inside him and stood up. Celegorm was panting for breath, covered in blood and sweat and dripping with his own seed. She freed him from the vines with a disdainful gesture. The encircling vines had left a ring of bruises on his arms and legs. Lúthien let the branches around Curufin relax their grip as well, enough that he could wiggle free if someone helped him. Celegorm lay still for a moment. Then he painfully turned onto his side and groped behind him to pull the knife’s hilt out. His hands were shaking, and it took him three times to succeed. He let the knife fall to the ground.

Celegorm gritted his teeth and tried to stand up. He got as far as his knees before collapsing again, crumpled on the ground. His fingers dug uselessly into the earth. Lúthien scornfully turned away. She thought he would probably be able to stand up eventually (if not, he could crawl) long enough to reach his brother’s side and release him. She found she didn’t much care.

Lúthien called one of their horses over to her with a whistle; the mare came to her obediently. She patted the horse’s nose; it wasn’t her fault that she had belonged to the sons of Fëanor. She took off the horse’s saddle and bridle, letting them fall to the grass. In a small gesture of mercy, she left them the other horse.

Eager to be gone, she leapt easily onto her horse’s back. She whispered softly to the mare and they were off, riding through the forest to find Beren.


End file.
